Under the Radar
by Swim Until You Can't See Land
Summary: A four-part origins story detailing the lives of the individuals on Arcturus Station years before the Normandy leaves for Eden Prime. Mikhailovich and Hackett discuss plans for a prototype warship. A group of students prepare for their final exams at Flight School. And a young Joker learns that going under the radar can lead to the biggest rewards of all.
1. The Captain

**2176 – The Skyllian Blitz**

Arcturus Station loomed in front of the _SSV Darwin_, an imposing, curved silhouette against the red-orange haze of the gas giant behind it. As capital of the Systems Alliance and headquarters of the Alliance military, it wielded both size and firepower, encompassed by the stationed Fifth Fleet, whose ships guarded the station and its surrounding mass relays with still and silent vigilance. Despite the considerable size of the carrier, the _SSV Darwin _seemed insignificant as it weaved its way towards the docking bays, overshadowed by the sheer size and stature of Arcturus. Its hull glinted against the illuminating lights of the station as it glided along one of the stretching docking arms, its airlocks lining up with the enclosed gangways that would eventually allow a slow disembarkation of the carrier.

After a while, the heavy rumbling of the ship's engines ground to a halt, and the various airlock doors slid open with a gentle _whoosh_, allowing the many passengers and crewmen alike to leave their temporary confinement. The captain remained on the bridge, arms crossed and a deep frown etched on his face until static from the comm. system roused him from his thoughts.

"Captain? The Fleet Admiral requests your presence for a debriefing in one standard hour. A rapid transport shuttle will pick you up from the adjacent docking bay."

"Acknowledged, Flight Lieutenant. Perform your after-landing checks and then get some shore leave. We don't know when or where we might be reassigned to." The captain ran a hand over his jaw and gave his navy uniform a subconscious pat down, mentally preparing himself for the imminent meeting with the Alliance top-dogs. After what had happened, they would certainly want answers.

The rapid transport shuttle was already waiting when he reached the end of the docking bay – a sleek, shiny vessel piloted by a stone-faced man in dress blues. He gave a curt nod as the captain slid into the small transport before powering up the engines with a quiet hum and thrusting forward with the accelerator. The captain grimaced. Many called him old-fashioned, but he preferred a good old bulky cruiser, built exactly what it was meant for and no more. These small shuttles were a waste of Alliance credits, adorned with treats and trimmings that were only good for satisfying the comforts of visiting diplomats and high-ranking officials.

Before long, the transport had arrived at the Systems Alliance headquarters, which housed the parliament and bureaux of its top officers, as well as embassies from the various established human colonies. The security clearance didn't take quite as long as it might have had the Fleet Admiral not been expecting him, and the captain quickly found himself being escorted by two soldiers whose faces were as severe as that of his shuttle pilot. The hallway was silver and gleaming, the sheen of steel offset by the navy blue drapings of the Alliance's official colours. Every so often he would pass a portrait of a famous human face – space farers known by every kid growing up. Yuri Gagain, Neil Armstrong, Jon Grissom. Men of greatness; their achievements remarkable. Men that every young Alliance officer hoped to emulate.

"Captain Mikhailovich, glad to see you made it here in one piece."

One such man was standing before him now. With bright blue eyes set in his weathered face, and a stern but kind smile peeking out from his greying facial hair, Admiral Hackett was nothing short of iconic, commanding respect and admiration without effort. His guttural, rasping voice was distinctive, imitated by cadets and even senior officers all over Arcturus station in a gesture that stemmed not from insolence, but rather affection.

Mikhailovich gave a curt nod. "Yes, Admiral. I assume I'm here for the debriefing on the attack of Elysium."

Hackett led him into a conference room, his earlier smile replaced with a tight clenching of the jaw. "That is correct. I've assembled several parliamentary leaders here, and we have just opened a communications channel open with Ambassador Goyle at the Citadel."

Scanning his eyes around the room, Mikhailovich recognised a few of the officials, who were eyeing him expectantly. On the projected holoscreen, Anita Goyle welcomed him with a warm smile that belied the anxious concern in her taut face. Everybody seemed on edge, and why not? The attack on Elysium had been an unexpected one – quick and brutal. Had it not been for the courage and determination from civilians and Alliance alike, then the outcome could have been much bloodier.

"For the benefit of the Ambassador, I'll briefly detail the events of the past twenty-four hours," continued Hackett, his grey brows drawn together grimly. "A considerable assemblage of pirates, slavers and batarians launched an attack in the Skyllian Verge, with the intention of wiping out Elysium. Early reports suggest that this assault was financed by batarians in retaliation for humanity's encroachment on what they consider their territory. Another possible factor is also the result on the zero-tolerance policy the Alliance has imposed on piracy in the Verge."

Ambassador Goyle nodded tightly. "How bad was the colony hit?"

Another of the admirals spoke up. "It could have been much worse than it was. The stationed Alliance Navy managed to decimate most of the pirates' fleet. The ground teams suffered more casualties – they were mostly made up of civilians and marines on shore leave. Fortunately, they were able to hold off the worst of the attack for several hours until reinforcements arrived, at which point the majority of the attackers disbanded and fled."

"Thanks in no small part to First Lieutenant Shepard," added another one of the officers, fervently, "who assembled an opposition force and managed to single-handedly resist the enemy onslaught long enough for reinforcements to arrive. We should be giving out medals for that kind of heroism."

"The matter of Shepard's promotion shall be discussed in due time," replied Hackett. "For now, I'm interested in Captain Mikhailovich's account of how the _SSV Darwin_ became involved in the attack."

All of the eyes in the conference room seemed to swivel towards him, and Mikhailovich felt himself grow warm under the heavy material of his uniform. Trying to ignore the droplets of perspiration beading around his temples, he gave a brief nod and began his summarised version of the events that had led him to Elysium. "We were only one relay out when we received the distress call. At that point, it was unclear what kind of enemy forces the colony was facing, and there had been no other contact from the Alliance. As captain, I gave the order to divert from our anticipated course to Arcturus, and instead aid Elysium in evacuation."

"You had an asari diplomat on board that vessel," interrupted another one of the officers, whom Mikhailovich did not recognise. "And yet you strayed from your course, risking the lives of everybody on that ship and the consequential political fallout that would have ensured had – "

"Admiral." Hackett's voice was no louder, but the tone in which he spoke conveyed unmistakeable authority. "Captain Mikhailovich may be questioned _after_ he has given us his full account, not before."

To Mikhailovich, he gave a bow of the head, and the captain resisted the urge to wipe his palms as he continued. "There was already significant damage to the ground forces upon our arrival in the system, and no word of reinforcements. Although the stationed Alliance Navy was holding off any heavy bombardment from the enemy ships, reports from the ground forces indicated that they were close to collapse. The _SSV Darwin_ remained in orbit, out of range of the enemy fleet, while several shuttles were discharged to begin evacuation. In addition, we sent several combat support crafts to aid the Alliance forces, namely one-man fighters and interceptors."

"How many people were evacuated?" asked Ambassador Goyle.

"Over two hundred, ma'am," Mikhailovich replied, lifting his chin a little higher, his determination growing stronger by the minute in his conviction of his actions. "Fifteen shuttles were sent groundside and came back filled to capacity or more. Two of those shuttles came packed with children from a local school, which was blown apart not even an hour later." He gave a pointed look towards the admiral who had spoken out against him earlier. "Many lives were saved thanks to the courage of those shuttle pilots, and the pilots of the combat support crafts who escorted them. As soon as those shuttles returned, we set a course for the mass relay and returned directly here, to Arcturus Station."

"A course which you never should have deviated from," retorted the outspoken admiral, his voice tart. "Who knows what the asari diplomat will think when certain humans can't even follow – "

"The asari will think that certain humans exhibit courage and consideration in deviating from their course for the sake of compassion," came a new voice from the back of the room, soft and mellow.

Mikhailovich had only briefly met the asari diplomat when she first boarded the _SSV Darwin_ on Thessia. His orders had only been to captain the carrier vessel from there to Arcturus, where the asari was to hold meeting with high-ranking Alliance officials, so he had seen little need to intrude on her privacy with hospitality and forced courtesies. If he had, he might have noticed how commanding her presence was. She glided through the room with graceful fluidity, her hips swaying from side to side under the rich, svelte fabric of her dress. The dimmed lights in the conference room illuminated her pale blue skin with a ghostly glow, as though there was a shimmering haze around her.

Hackett cleared his throat. "I am pleased to introduce Diplomat Dareia, who a few of you were scheduled to meet before her unfortunate delay."

The asari bowed her head before addressing the room. "I realise that this matter concerns the Systems Alliance alone, but when Fleet Admiral Hackett informed me that our meeting would be postponed due to this debriefing, I asked that I be allowed to give my eyewitness testimony in evidence of the bravery of Captain Mikhailovich and the rest of the crew aboard the _SSV Darwin_. I myself am quite unharmed, and countless others' lives were saved, so I would implore you to judge the captain's actions not as reckless or insubordinate, but rather valiant and compassionate." She turned and gave Mikhailovich a small smile.

Mikhailovich felt a flush creep up his neck from underneath his collar, and glanced around the room at his fellow officers. A few were nodding in agreement, and others had their mouths slightly agape. The admiral who had spoken against him seemed disgruntled, but nevertheless had fallen quiet, his mouth twisting in what seemed like reluctant acquiescence.

Only Hackett was standing composed, the smallest hint of a smile twitching at his cheek. "Diplomat Dareia's testimony is echoed by several incoming reports from Elysium, Captain. Despite what it may seem, the intention of this debriefing is not to discipline your actions, but commend them." He gave a warm smile. "You've been a respectable, reliable captain for many years now – proving yourself composed and steadfast in the face of adversity. We need good men like you at the top of the Alliance, which is why I'm putting you forward for promotion to Rear Admiral, and with it the charge of the 63rd Scout Flotilla."

Applause rang out throughout the room, and Mikhailovich felt his chest lurch with simultaneous relief and pride, allowing himself a small smile. "Thank you, Admiral. It is an honour."

Hackett nodded, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "We must return to this delayed meeting. Enjoy your shore leave – it's well deserved. You'll receive your official promotion at a ceremony next week. It has been scheduled in to coincide with the ceremony for this year's flight school graduates." He smiled. "I'll see you then. Dismissed, Rear Admiral."


	2. The Student

**Thanks to everyone who has added this to their favourites/alerts! It's only a 4-part story, so will be short and sweet, but hopefully you enjoy it! Feel free to leave me any feedback, positive or constructive, reviews are much welcomed.**

* * *

The cockpit was snug and tight around her, secure and compact. Lights and buttons flashed on the surrounding walls, gleaming and luminescent. Adjusting the holographic targeting visor set over her right eye, she tightened her hands around the controls and eased the craft into formation alongside the rest of her unit. Ahead, she could see the vast, looming silhouette of the enemy cruiser, dark and menacing against the watercolour, cloudy haze of the starburst nebula in the background. Even the frigates in their own fleet were dwarfed by its considerable size, let alone the combat support crafts that made up her unit. The fighters in her division were small vessels, used for supporting the larger, more powerful ships in space warfare. Interceptors, such as the one-man craft she was piloting, were optimised for destroying opposing fighters.

A burst of static sounded in her ear. "Theo, we've got interference on the scanners. They could be coming around for another attack."

"Keep your formation," she ordered, the fabric of the microphone brushing against her lips as she spoke. "That's an order, Brock. No heroics. Hold your course steady."

Out of the windows she saw the other fighters and interceptors hold their formation, keeping in line with mechanical precision. She saw the dull, battered hulls of the older craft, the burning glow from their engines, the subtle deviations in balance. The majority of flying these days, particularly with larger vessels, was done through computers and holograms, but there was something distinctly old-fashioned about the combat support craft, and more often than not Theo would rely on vision and reflex rather than calculations and programming to fly.

Often, however, technology was not merely advantageous, but essential. The intermittent _blip blip blip_ of her scanner transformed into a more urgent bleeping, and several small, dark specks materialised in her targeting visor. They lined up into an attack formation, and the holographic digits on her visor indicated that they would soon be within visible range.

"Enemy fighters incoming!" announced Brock, his anticipation audible through her earpiece.

"Alliance fighters – peel off and remain on course for enemy cruiser. Interceptors, move into attack formation, and get on the tail of anything that tries to follow them." Theo tightened her grip on the controls, feeling the interceptor craft duck and weave with each slight movement of her hands. Her palms were hot and slick inside her gloves, but her fingers were steady around the weapons triggers, ready to let loose when the time came. The numbers on her visor ticked down faster and faster, until it seemed as though the enemy fighters would be almost on top of them.

"Now!" ordered Theo, and squeezed the trigger just as a row of sleek, black fighters were upon them.

Bursts of light pelted through the dark vacuum, silent but straight. Almost immediately, the enemy returned fire, and Theo was forced to pull her craft into a steep dive to avoid the retaliatory onslaught. Looping back, she came up beneath a fighter, and shot its engines apart, her own craft rattling and shaking dangerously as it hurtled through the exploding debris. Ahead of her, she noticed Brock on the tail of another craft, engaged in a deadly dogfight.

"Pull away, Brock! There's another one almost on top of you."

"I've got it. Just a few more seconds and I'm locked on."

"You don't have a few more seconds. Get out of there before you – "

A blinding light stunned her vision, and she had to bank sharply to avoid a large chunk of debris hurtling towards her. Weaving between fighters, she searched for the signature of Brock's vessel on the scanner, but it had disappeared.

"Damn it!" she muttered darkly, grabbing the controls and spiralling around to regroup with the rest of the unit, who were making their way towards the larger enemy cruiser.

"Another wave of fighters imminent," came the voice of somebody else through her earpiece. "Should we pull back?"

"Negative," replied Theo. "Our own fighters are almost at the target. Abandoning the mission now would be suicide. We need to take down that cruiser. Cover the fighters!"

Bracing herself for the next wave, Theo thrust the controls forward and led the interception of the enemy fighters. Several more ships were taken down, and her senses were on high alert in order to dodge and weave between the ensuing debris. Her unit was still in a loose formation around her and, despite the loss of Brock, still intact. They hurtled forward and were soon met with a new group of enemy fighters. One by one they peeled off and engaged in furious and deadly chases as they endeavoured to keep their own fighters free and clear. Theo banked this way and that, taking down two fighters in one stunning move as she gunned one down and led her pursuer into the fiery wreckage.

Before she could congratulate herself, however, there was a crash from behind her, and she felt an ominous shuddering jolt through the small craft, shaking her head around in her skull. The controls began to rattle violently in her hands, and she fought to keep the small transport from spiralling out of control.

_Not now, not now!_ She thought, desperately. _Not when we're so close!_

Static buzzed unpleasantly in her ear, and she tried to make sense of the stuttering, muffled voice at the other end, but it was no use. The interceptor juddered and shook, and not matter how she twisted the controls, she could not pull it back on course. Flashing lights were blazing past her, and the craft buckled under another impact before spinning even more wildly, hurtling towards the enemy cruiser.

_Maybe I can take it down with me_, she thought faintly.

The spinning was getting faster and faster now, and everything turned into a dizzy blur of darkness and light. The cruiser grew closer and closer in her vision, and she did not have a chance to feel the impact before everything went black.

* * *

"Will you please stop frowning and cheer up, Theo? I've seen fewer wrinkles on a krogan's backside. It's only a flight sim; it's not like you actually _died_."

Theo scowled but said nothing, instead taking another slurp from her watery soup. The food on Arcturus was average at best – isolated space stations weren't the best place to cultivate crops and rear animals, after all – but would it really take so much effort to give the soup a little more consistency? The liquid was lukewarm, and she could barely taste any flavour as it trickled down her throat. Reaching across the table, she snatched the salt and began shaking it vigorously while her classmates looked on indulgently.

One of the softer spoken girls named Maria, who was training to be a navigator and had observed the simulation from the bridge of the virtual frigate, made another attempt to assuage Theo's sour mood. "Everybody knows that they designed that particular program to be unbeatable. If you fly in the final exam like you did today then you'll pass with flying colours."

Theo shoved her bowl away bad-temperedly and pulled towards her the main dish of noodles with some sort of meat substitute. The flesh was spongy and tasteless, nothing like the rich, juicy steaks she could have been eating back on Elysium. Oh, what she would give for some caramelised pork, so tender and sweet that it could melt on the tongue. Or some onions – proper onions that were crisp and fresh and tangy and made the eyes water with their aroma. She stabbed half-heartedly with her fork, her glum mood darkening even more.

Sighing, she turned to correct Maria. "It's not unbeatable. The program, I mean."

"But it's _designed_ to be," she insisted. "Only one person has ever beaten it, and that was – "

"Brittle Bones Kid!" interrupted Brock, sauntering up to the table and slamming down his own tray with careless nonchalance. He smirked and ruffled a hand through white-blonde hair, muscles flexing under the coarse, navy-blue material of his standard-issue Alliance jumpsuit. If there was anyone in the mess hall who looked least like a potential pilot, it was Brock. With his chiselled features and bulky stature, he could have been the perfect poster boy for the N7 programme – everything about him screamed Special Forces.

Theo rolled her eyes. _Here we go again_.

"I mean, what's he even doing in our class? He's two years younger than any of us. And what's with the face? So serious all the time." He pouted his lip and screwed up his brow into a deep frown, drawing laughs from the others at their table.

Theo clenched her fist tighter around her fork, willing herself to remain composed, but Brock had excelled once more in getting under her skin. "In case you hadn't noticed, he's also better than us. He beat the damn sim."

"Your hero-worship of some guy who doesn't even know you exist is really touching. Shame you couldn't have flown like him today – if you hadn't gotten yourself blown up halfway through the sim then maybe the two of you could have started a club."

She scowled. She did _not_ hero-worship Brittle Bones Kid. Joker. Whatever his name was. It just irked her that he had been the first one to beat the sim. Even more so, she hoped he wouldn't be the last. "Go to hell, Brock."

Brock merely laughed and returned to his food, slurping down his soup with fervent mouthfuls. He had always held a comically-exaggerated resentment towards the fact that Theo, his main rival, was female. The two of them had always maintained a civil, if terse, relationship, permeated with jibes and taunts and scathing remarks. But such was flight school – competition was fierce, and a genial, if not friendly, rivalry did wonders for one's conviction and determination.

Her thoughts were interrupted as a commotion began to burble at the far end of the hall, with the loud hum of chatter fading to a curious hush of murmurs and whispers. Craning her neck, she noticed a group of flight instructors making their way into the middle of the hall, calling for silence and attention as they prepared to make an announcement.

"As you all should be aware, your theoretical final takes place tomorrow at 0900," began Instructor Barrett, a strict but pleasant silver-haired veteran and former Flight Lieutenant who had retired some years previously.

At the mention of exams, he was cut off by a wave of groans from the students, but upon raising a hand the noise fell short almost immediately. "Your theoretical final takes place tomorrow at 0900," he repeated. "And it is not something to be taken lightly. A good pilot relies on knowledge as well as skill, and I'll remind you that without a score of at least sixty-five, you won't be graduating."

The hall descended into further muttering, the voices considerably more anxious now. Brock leaned back in his hair, looping his fingers through his belt hoops and smirking. "No problem. I've been taking practice tests all week and I've never scored lower than a seventy."

Theo grimaced. Her own self-tests had been ranging between sixty-three and sixty-seven, and she made a mental note to fit in some extra studying that night, if only to wipe that self-satisfied grin from Brock's face. Of course, Brock could be lying, but she doubted it. Unfortunately, the older student had been blessed with brains as well as brawn, and it would take some effort between now and the next morning for him to outdo him.

_Damn it_, she thought as she traversed the various levels of the Academy towards the dorms in the upper quarter. _Damn it, damn it, damn it._ It wasn't as though she was a poor student – far from it. But her free time was spent in the sims or reaction rooms rather than the library. Brock was a more rounded student, and now he was going to benefit from it.

Reaching her dorm, she jammed her hand against the keypad at the side of the door, watching the interface change from red to green. The steel slid open with a gentle whirr, and she was met with the dark interior of her communal room. Thankfully, the two women that she shared with were first-year students, who had already taken their early exams and had departed for their respective homeworlds for some shore leave. The dorm was still and empty; the only sounds coming from the slight whirring of the computer, the only lights coming from its blinking holographic interface.

Hearing the door slide shut behind her, Theo made her way over to the window, being one of the lucky students whose room overlooked the vast expanse of the Arcturus System. Faint stars twinkled in the vast blackness, all outshone by the fiery haze of the gas giant in the distance. It made the surrounding space seem obscure; clouded by vapours of red so deep they seemed almost black.

Theo forced herself away from the view, setting herself down in front of the computer interface and stretching her back. This was no time to be admiring the vastness and freedom of space. She did not want to be staring at it from Arcturus all her life – she wanted to be flying in it, feeling the controls beneath her hands, commanding her own ship to bank and turn as she wanted it. But that wasn't going to happen on its own. First, she had to make sure she passed the theoretical final the next morning.

_And_, she thought to herself with a grin, _maybe just teach Brock a lesson in humility by outscoring him, and finally beating Brittle Bones Kid too._


	3. The Admiral

The ceremony turned out to be simple and understated, just as Mikhailovich would have liked. Held in the Academy of Arcturus Station rather than the parliamentary headquarters, the considerable-sized hall was filled with more students and soldiers than politicians. The walls were draped with long, billowing sheets of fabric from ceiling to floor, and a holographic projection of the Systems Alliance emblem was the shimmering backdrop against which the young graduates of the flight school would stand and receive their diplomas. One by one, the new pilots and navigators and engineers would climb the short flight of stairs and make their way onto the stage, grins wide and chests puffed with pride as their achievements and commendations were read aloud by their mentors and instructors.

"Jeff Moreau. Graduating with distinctions of Merit and Commendation, top of his class."

The hall echoed with the sound of scattered clapping and whistles, sounding less like the cacophonous roar of appreciation that the previous student – Brock – had received, and more like an obligatory politeness. The applause continued for a few moments before slowly beginning to cease with a sense of confusion. Whispering and muttering took place of the applause, and students and instructors alike wore puzzled expressions as they craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the elusive Moreau. Mikhailovich watched on – nobody had made their way onto the stage, but a young man in his early twenties was hobbling painstakingly towards the steps. His arms were lean and wiry, and his hands gripped a pair of crutches. So slowly that it was excruciating to watch, he limped his way to the foot of the stairs, heaving himself up the first step with considerable effort.

_Is nobody going to help him?_ Mikhailovich wondered, feeling a twinge in his stomach for the boy.

Evidently, some of the instructors had the same thought, for two of them moved towards Moreau to aid him. But the young man's vivid green eyes exuded irritated animosity, mirrored by the impatient shrug he gave when they attempted to take his arms. Shaking them off, he continued unaided to the top of the stairs before hopping along the stage with careful precision. A muscle seemed to twitch in his cheek in a painful wince from the firm handshake he received, but when he received his diploma, with scruffy auburn hair and creased dress blues, nobody stood straighter nor had a bigger grin on their face than Jeff Moreau.

"Kid's got Vrolik Syndrome," whispered an instructor to his neighbour. "You know, brittle bone disease? But he's still the best damn pilot I've seen come through our ranks."

Mikhailovich was keen to hear more, but at that moment he heard the gruff, commanding voice of Admiral Hackett, and prepared to make his way onto the stage for his own commendation. The awards seemed to pass in a blur to Mikhailovich – it was as if the voices were muffled and everything was being played at double-speed. Only when it was his turn did his attention snap into focus, as Hackett awarded him with his promotion to Rear Admiral, and charge of the 63rd Scout Flotilla. Pride and honour swelled in his chest, making him feel lighter than air, and he suddenly understood how even the sickly Jeff Moreau could stand tall and strong in a moment such as this.

Shortly after, the ceremony began to wind up, and Mikhailovich found himself once more in the company of Admiral Hackett, who beckoned him to walk with him. "There are going to be interesting times ahead for the 63rd Scout Flotilla, Rear Admiral," the older man said, his curt voice unable to completely conceal the note of enthusiasm. "The Alliance is currently in discussion with the Turian Hierarchy regarding a cooperative project funded by the Citadel Council. The asari diplomat you escorted here is a representative of the Council Ambassador, and is here to assess the proposal. If all goes according to plan, then we'll get the green light to start a co-development with the turians on a prototype frigate, which will then be assigned to your fleet."

Mikhailovich felt an unpleasant nudge in his stomach, a twinge of discomfort. "We're working with the turians on this one, sir?"

"You're not the first to voice your misgivings on this," admitted Hackett, with a heavy sigh. "But the fact of the matter is that it is important for humanity to facilitate good relations with our allies, and the turians are just that. This project is not only innovative, but it symbolises the progress humanity has made and shows our desire to cooperate with other species. I don't need to remind you of how important that is."

"Understood, sir," replied Mikhailovich stoutly. He was not the sort of man to question his orders, and if he had misgivings about working with the turians, he would see to it that they went unvoiced. Shifting slightly, he cleared his throat and brought Hackett's attention to the other matter that had been warranting discussion for the past week. "Sir, if I may. The majority of the children we evacuated from Elysium have been returned home to their families, but there are a few who have lost their families and wish to join the Alliance. It seems as though the actions of the fleet and ground teams during the Blitz made quite an impression on one or two of them."

"How old?"

"The youngest just turned seventeen. The others are eighteen and nineteen."

Hackett nodded. "If they're of age, they can enlist. If they turn out to be half as capable as the likes of young Jeff Moreau, the Alliance will be better off for it."

After a little more idle discussion and courteous pleasantries, Hackett said his goodbyes and left Mikhailovich to watch the last remaining students trickle from the Academy hall. Among the last to leave was Jeff Moreau, the new pilot wearing a smug grin on his face as he cautiously hobbled towards the exit. The muscles in his arms twitched and flexed with every heave and drag of the crutches, but the young man seemed to be moving with less effort than before. He was brimming with confidence, exuding such a demeanour as if to say "I'm destined for greatness."

If only he knew.


	4. The Pilot

**2181 – Five Years Later**

Joker's arrival at Arcturus was one of casual nonchalance. Bearded and unapologetic, with a cap perched loosely on his head, he hobbled along the smooth, flat pathway with as much swagger as his crutches would allow. The central ring of Arcturus Station was similar in feel, if not in scope, to the Citadel's Presidium. Everything was gleaming and new, with steel so shiny he could almost see his own reflection in it. He had been offered a rapid transport shuttle to take him to Alliance Headquarters, but Joker had grown up on the station, and the distance from the docking bay to the headquarters was less a physical struggle and more a strange sort of homecoming.

The padding of his crutches rubbed in the crease under his arm, causing the synthetic material of his jumpsuit to scratch against his skin. He ignored the uncomfortable sensation and pressed on, pushing the crutches ahead of him and heaving himself forward in an almost rhythmic dance – precise and careful. The slightest slip could send him sprawling, shattering every bone in his body, but Joker was not concerned. He'd been battling Vrolik Syndrome since before he was born, and his crutches felt as much a part of him as his own limbs. Now and then, he caught passers-by looking him with varied expressions; some curious, some pitying. He ignored them and pushed on. Let them look at him because he was the best helmsman in the Alliance, not because he was some frail cripple.

After some time, he reached the Alliance Headquarters – the capital of the space station which housed the Academy and the parliament. The buildings towered over him, grand and imposing, boasting the grand design of the Systems Alliance emblem. Here, there were no people idly passing by – everybody was walking with a purpose in their jumpsuits, dress blues, formalwear. There was an air of professionalism, a sense of seriousness that epitomised the dedication of Alliance soldiers to humanity. Joker felt a swell of pride, and seemed to visibly straighten his shoulders. It was good to be home.

"Flight Lieutenant Moreau, if you'd like to take the Elevator B-2 to the fifteenth floor, Admiral Hackett is expecting you."

Joker nodded and shuffled into the elevator, the sliding door whirring shut behind him with a gentle whisper. He watched the various holographic lights blink on and off as it silently began to move up, faint music playing in the background as the lobby below him began to slip farther and farther away. Eventually, a gentle _ping_ indicated that he had arrived at his floor, and he dragged himself out of the elevator towards a receptionist's desk, where a young man in Alliance blues was watching him curiously.

"Flight Lieutenant Jeff Moreau to see Admiral Hackett," he said by way of explanation.

If the young cadet was surprised that a man dependent on crutches was a flight lieutenant, then he hid it well. "Admiral Hackett is expecting you, sir. Just through those doors to your left."

Joker hobbled across to the room, opening the door to see that Hackett was in the company of another senior officer, a man he recognised as Rear Admiral Mikhailovich, commander of the 63rd Scout Flotilla. He wedged a crutch tightly under his arm, saluting the two high-ranking officials while feeling a twinge of foreboding in his stomach. These were Alliance top-dogs. What could they possibly want with him?

"Flight Lieutenant Moreau, it's good to see you," said Hackett by way of greeting. "I'd like to introduce you to Rear Admiral Mikhailovich."

Mikhailovich offered a hand and Joker took it tentatively, surprised when the handshake was carefully gentle. Many a time had his fingers been broken by the overly-firm grip of a zealous officer – not that he'd ever admit that to them. Better to clench his jaw and suffer through the pain than bring any more unwanted attention to his disease. He had enough to prove already.

"The part you played in the Theshaca Raids back in '78 was of great importance in dealing with the pirate situation out there," said Mikhailovich. "And as I understand it, you have just returned from another impressive campaign out in the Skyllian Verge."

"Thank you, sir," said Joker hesitantly, unsure where this conversation was leading to. "Tensions in the Verge always seem to run a bit higher when the anniversary of the Blitz comes around, no real prizes for guessing why. Some disgruntled batarians launched an attack on a transport ship heading for Elysium, and luckily we were standing by to help out."

"In short, he's the best young pilot we've got, even if he is too modest to say so," said Hackett.

_Modest, huh?_ thought Joker. _I've never heard that one before. Then again, you did cut me off before I could tell you about the fact that I took down twice as many ships as any other frigate there, plus pulled off this near-impossible manoeuvre that should really earn me a medal or at least a – _

"The ideal candidate for this project, then," surmised Mikhailovich, eyeing him appraisingly.

Joker was momentarily thrown. "What project, sir?"

Hackett motioned him to the middle of the room before dimming the lights. In front of him, a holographic projection fizzled into life, its white-blue lines making up edges and lines and measurements and scales. It was a blueprint of a ship. And not just any ship, by the looks of it. Something that Joker had never seen before. A prototype. Sleek lines and curves, a streamlined shape, balanced engines. He felt his heart jump a little in his chest, pounding a little harder against his ribs.

"For the past five years, the Alliance has been working with the Turian hierarchy on the construction of the _SSV Normandy_," explained Hackett. "She's going to be a deep scout frigate, with innovations that no other fleet has ever seen before."

"Like what?" asked Joker, attempting to remain composed but unable to keep the eagerness from his voice as he took up his crutches and paced around the hologram to get a look from different angles. "The CIC is in an unusual place; I guess that's the turian influence showing. And the drive core – it's huge for a ship of this size. That's going to affect the balance a bit, but with the right pilot…" he trailed off, looking wonderingly between Hackett and Mikhailovich.

"It's an experimental piece of technology called the Tantalus drive core," clarified Hackett, giving nothing away just yet. "It will allow a state-of-the-art stealth system, hiding the heat emissions and making the ship undetectable to everything apart from visual contact. She'll be quiet and fast, and able to run at FTL speeds for much longer than normal frigates."

"This…" Joker couldn't quite find the words. _Let me fly this thing! Tell me you're going to let me fly her!_

Hackett gave a small smile. "The best ship in the Alliance fleet deserves the best pilot, Flight Lieutenant. Construction should be completed within the next two years, after which the _Normandy_ will go to the head of Rear Admiral Mikhailovich's 63rd Scout Flotilla. We're putting together the best team possible to join her crew, and that includes you as her pilot."

Joker could barely comprehend the admiral's words; such was his state of astonishment and disbelief. Out of every helmsman in the Alliance fleet, he had been chosen to fly this new innovation. Him. The sickly kid with the brittle bones, who nobody had looked twice at during flight school until the end where he had humiliated them all.

_And why not? _He thought to himself. _I've damn well earned it._ He finally managed to find his tongue, and inclined his head towards his superiors. "Thank you for this opportunity. And let me just congratulate you on making the right choice." He quickly bit back a smirk, wondering if he had gone too far.

Hackett remained composed, but there was a slight twitch at the side of his mouth. "There have been several other Alliance members and soldiers nominated to join the _Normandy's_ crew. Over the next eighteen months, you'll be under the command of Captain David Anderson. Are you familiar with him?"

"I've never met him, sir, but I'm aware of his reputation."

Hackett nodded. "He's a good man – hard but fair. You'll be joining up with him in two weeks on the _SSV Tannenberg. _Do enough to impress him, and you'll have done enough to get your shot at the _Normandy_." He gave Joker a fixed stare – stern, but not without warmth. "Good luck, Flight Lieutenant."

_Luck?_ Joker smiled to himself. _I don't need luck. I'm not good. I'm not even great. I'm the best damn helmsman in the Alliance fleet._

* * *

**2183 – Two Years Later**

Joker ignored the rubbing of his jumpsuit against the crutches under his arms, instead only muttering curses under his breath about the docking hatch being so damn far from the elevator. It was a walk that seemed long at the best of times, but today was made worse by the sight at the end of it. The _SSV Normandy_, brand new, gleaming and glistening, and waiting there for him to slip into his pilot's seat and finally get a chance to put the girl through her paces. Sure, it was a shakedown run, and there was only so much trouble you could get into on the way to Eden Prime, but something told Joker that he'd get a chance to push himself before this mission was over.

Footsteps sounded from behind him, and Joker kept pushing stubbornly onwards before the inevitable happened. Sure enough, the person soon passed him, turned back to give him a curious, interested look and kept walking. Another crew member, no doubt. Not one that he recognised from his stint on the _SSV Tannenberg_, but there seemed to be plenty of new crew members. The newcomer was dressed in a standard Alliance jumpsuit like him, though there was something that gave Joker the impression that the stranger was no ordinary crew member. Something about the walk, the air of confidence, screamed special forces. _Whatever. Let those N7 jocks do their thing. I'm doing to make this baby dance_.

Hobbling through the airlock, Joker practically threw his crutches to one side before slipping into the pilot's chair. Sure, it wasn't the comfiest seat he's ever been in – _would it have killed them to splash out on some upholstery? Leather, maybe? _- but that didn't matter. As soon as he took his place, it felt like slipping into a second skin, and for a moment he just sat in silence, eyeing the controls and trying to quell the rising anticipation within himself.

"Making yourself at home?"

He didn't need to turn around to recognise the voice. "Alenko. I heard you got promoted." It was good to have at least one familiar face from the _Tannenberg_ on board.

"I did. Staff Lieutenant." The dark-haired man slid into the co-pilot's seat, a smirk forming at the side of his mouth. "I heard you finally got a ship that matches your ability. Or was it your ego? I can't remember."

"Shh! Don't jinx it. I'm just waiting for something to go wrong. I still can't believe I'm getting to fly her."

Kaidan laughed. "Feeling like the first day of flight school?"

Joker shakes his head. "This is _nothing_ like the first day of flight school." This time, he didn't have to prove himself.

Behind him, he heard the sound of somebody clearing their throat. Turning around in the chair, he saw the soldier from earlier, who gave a brief nod to Kaidan – "Lieutenant Alenko" - before looking at Joker with an expression which seemed half-amused, half-appraising. "Do you have a name, Flight Lieutenant?"

Joker resists the impulse to snort. _Like you don't know it already. And if you don't, you should._ But the soldier was still wearing a jumpsuit, so he couldn't be sure if it would be classed as insubordination, even accidental insubordination, if he answered with any snideness. It would just be his luck to get kicked off the ship when he was so close to finally flying again.

"Jeff Moreau."

The soldier didn't give any indication of recognising his name. Just a smirk. "So, you reckon you can handle this?"

Against all instinct, he was very careful to keep his tone neutral when he answered. "I'm sure I'll be able to manage. It's just a shakedown run."

Something thoughtful passed over the soldier's face. "Shakedown runs or suicide missions – I've always found it useful to be prepared for anything. You never know how easily a simple mission may turn into something much, much bigger."

Years later, Joker would remember those words, and look back on this conversation with a shake of the head and a snort of disbelief. _The irony_. "Do _you_ have a name?"

The soldier smiled, and held out a hand.

"Shepard."

* * *

**That's it! Thanks to everybody who has read, favourited, or put this story on their alerts. If anybody has any feedback, advice or con crit then it would be great to hear from you, reviews are most welcomed!**


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